Obsession (9780061887079) (7 page)

It might be effective to dress in one of her gowns and find my way back to the living room where I left her—prostrate, passed out—to flaunt my beauty which is at its peak right now after days at the spa. Yes—that notion gives me energy to open a closet, but it is filled with white caftans too celibate for my mood. In others I recognize dresses of emerald-green, apricot, saffron, cinnamon—in styles and colors Talbot chose for me. There is not a dress in this closet that would not suit me to a tee, but I settle for a magenta chiffon and, taking off my dress, slip it over my head. When I stand to see how it looks in the mirror—I see it is not me but Bee, fully recovered, standing in the doorway. But is
it really? We look so alike, might it only be a reflection of myself in a mirror? Ideas like pellets of quicksilver pound my brain into migraine as I try to free one into action, but they only make me crazy.

Next morning I wake, fully remembering each delicious moment. What a sublime dream! I write it down instantly so as not to forget it. This one
must
be at hand, to read again and again.

 

I
CAN'T STAND IT
a moment longer. I have to see where Priscilla lives. A foray to New York is put in motion, although somewhat delayed by indecision as to what to wear. Hours are spent trying on one dress after another as Rowena sits silent except for nods of
approval—yes, or shakes of head—no. I am hard put to decide, as there is not one dress or suit in my wardrobe not selected by Talbot, each in perfect taste but sexy. Definitely. Rowena finally loses patience, and, sensing I am losing my audience of one, I hastily throw whatever is at hand into my suitcase and off I jet to New York to be met by limousine and chauffeured to Sutton Place.

I ring the doorbell and am shown into the living room by Phoebe, Priscilla's housekeeper, startled by her astonishing eyes, opalescent as green grapes, which look me over as she pleasantly tells me, “Mrs. Bingham has been expecting you.” It's a long wait as I sit on a sofa until finally I hear heels clickety-click down the staircase. Suddenly there she is—in person—the hated Priscilla—who sits herself down on an identical sofa opposite me. It is
as if I sit on a sofa looking at myself in a mirror. We are both dressed in identical jackets of chartreuse jersey wool, navy skirts, navy hose, and spiky-heeled shoes. We even have the same-patterned Hermès scarf artfully placed around our necks. Priscilla asks if I would like tea.

“What I'd really like is to see the house.”

“Of course—come!”

Priscilla graciously minces up the stairs curving to a long hall. Unable to contain myself I say,

“The bedroom first if you don't mind.”

“Of course—that's where we're headed—I knew you'd be interested—”

She leads me into a room looking out over the East River. The first thing I spot is the chair. It is exactly like one in our
private sitting room at Akeru, one that Talbot designed, covered in a cinnamon fabric with a pattern of magenta squares, ample, wide, with rounded padded arms, the upholstery soft as marshmallows. A chair I love to sink into, reading, and often Talbot had tried to distract me, taking the book from me, lifting my skirt, skimming over my mons, continuing until it honey-creamed to his satisfaction, then kneeling down, spreading my legs, and, with great deliberation, circling my clit with his finger, and as it rose I begged for more, knowing in time he would touch it with his tongue—and oh god—what better way of whiling away an afternoon.

Priscilla sees me looking at the chair and comments, “Talbot designed that chair, the fabric too—I often sit there reading.”

I went over to the window and looked down at the river as the tugboat
Tom Tracy
chug-chugged by, projecting myself onto it, imagining I was there and not here.

“We love this house,” Priscilla said coming over to stand beside me. “Such a contrast from our other homes—the farm in Maryland, the flat in London, the pied-à-terre in Paris, the cottage in Nantucket with its heavenly sea and blue sky.”

“You know what I'd really like now is not tea but a glass of sherry.”

“Of course, we'll have it in the library.” I follow her and once again we sit facing each other as Phoebe, eyes averted, silently brings a cut-glass decanter of sherry and glasses on a silver tray, placing it on the coffee table between us.

My hand shakes as I reach to take the
glass Priscilla is about to extend. Instead I open my purse and take out an envelope, handing it to her.

“What's
this
?” she asks.

“A letter—”

“Of what interest to me?” she says dismissively.

I remain silent.

“Why it's
Talbot's
writing.”

“You're welcome to read it.”

I put out my hand to take the letter back and stand up, but she's got a real grip on it.

“I have to go. If you want to read it, it will have to be now.”

She takes the letter out of the envelope—

“Out loud,”
I say.

The two of us sit for what seems like hours, but perhaps it's only a blink…trembling, she begins…

 

My Dove, Sweet Bee,

An envelope will be delivered to you by a stranger and inside will be a ticket for a magic show. It comes as a great relief as you have waited so long, scented and coiffed exactly as I wish, your hair braided loosely and held by tortoiseshell combs, tendrils falling gently as antennas of mythical creatures around the pale beauty of your face, lightly tinted by a maquillage that allows its luminosity to shine through—and the sapphire blue eye shadow flecked with silver, please—your mouth made ready for kissing by a sweep of candy salve. I mentioned to Rowena to pull the laces on the bodice I brought from Neverneverland extra tight so that your breasts will poof up deliciously, longing to be released to my tender mercies—and, of course, you are wearing my preferred leather emerald-studded collar, but as I your Master have the chain and haven't come, the
strain of waiting in vain for me so many nights makes you question your mental integrity. The magic show will be a most welcome diversion and one you richly deserve. Nevertheless you must leave notes for me everywhere explaining where you are just in case I come for you.

Though the magician performing at the magic show may be rather pedestrian—producing the usual rabbits and nosegays out of ostensibly thin air—you will, I guarantee, enjoy yourself immensely, in spite of the collar you are wearing, which is itching, even irritating, your neck. On balance, your mood will be good and you will smile and be eager to cooperate when the magician picks you from the audience to help him perform his trick. I have ordered him to whisper to you on stage, “Don't worry, I know what I'm doing,” and don't be put off by the heavy white makeup he is wearing, which might make
you apprehensive; once it's removed, he can be trusted. As you enter the casket he will mutter, “Cooey-gooey conga” and a lot of other gibberish as you feel the casket spin like a wheel until suddenly you will find yourself deposited back on the stage, but no one is applauding, because you are clearly in another place than the one you were in before you entered the casket, and, as you look out into the audience, you find it too to be not as it was before. You may be surprised to find standing beside you not the magician—but me. You will long to ask how I made everything happen, including the new audience—what my connection is to this magic show, do I know that it is me myself? But you will remain silent because you want to have your pussy licked so badly you think you are about to faint with longing, and don't want to risk irritating me with idle questions.

“Heel,” you'll hear a voice say, overjoyed to discover it is mine; you will happily get on your hands and knees as I tell you, “Now do what you're supposed to do”—turning my back I'll bend forward over a chair, rest my arms on the seat cushion, as your hand slaps my bottom until spots of pink appear, which you'll lick and soothe until the heaven of your face finds its way tight up against my tulip, your tongue at last doing what it is supposed to do, seeking deeper up inside me.

Nadine will appear from nowhere to reward you with a special treat, circling your nipples with her finger, expanding pleasure by taking a breast into the lovely wideness of her mouth while squeezing the nipple of the other with her fingers into a tiny bud of pain as your pussy honey creams with anticipation.

But suddenly we will be interrupted by
Maja, of all people. How like her not to miss an opportunity to appear center-stage when festivities are about to peak. Startlingly dressed in a vermillion robe and cape similar to that of a cardinal or archbishop, twirling jeweled fingers in arabesques around her head, she will produce a galaxy of bursting stars, from which a naked girl will appear. The audience, clearly delighted, will applaud. At once I will notice the chain circling her waist is the very one I had made for you in Florence by Bucellati, a chain of such delicacy it is invisible, on which hangs the golden key bearing my name. How the hell did she get it? Certainly not from you? The girl will diffidently stand back as Maja brings her forward to introduce her as Phoebe. I observe a somewhat awkward maiden with eyes, feline, opalescent as green grapes and such exquisite features no
wonder Maja considers her a prize. Her hair, a startling shade of amber, cascades, a waterfall of silk, down her back as I remove the invisible chain and attach it onto the leather collar around her neck, which for some reason displeases you. Phoebe's mons has enormous appeal as Maja has wisely left it unshaven and it presents itself a tuft of amber softness. How thoughtful of Maja to imprint your crest of bee and crown placed on her flesh, precisely at top of the V where the mossy tuft begins.

 

Here Priscilla is unable to continue….

“I've had enough of this,” Priscilla shouts.

“As you wish.” I stand reaching for the letter, ready to leave.

Abruptly she changes her mind, sits down…. starts….

 

But never fear my Queen—Phoebe will be but a passing fancy—but come, come now—no more sentimentalities. I ease Phoebe into the chair, contemplate her beauty, as tentatively she leans forward to take my cock into her mouth.

 

“No, no, that will never do,” I interrupt. “I can't hear you—speak up.”

She wants to kill me…but instead a coughing fit ensues.

Opening my purse, urging her to calm down, I offer a soothing lozenge readily at hand, leaning across to pat her knee, saying, “There, there, dear.”

“Shut up,” she says, rudely brushing away my hand, but mesmerized by curiosity delves back into the letter and proceeds in an acceptable manner.

“Louder,” I say.

 

As I stand thus, jealous of her interest in me you kneel, exploring my balls with your glorious tongue. You know I prefer giving prolonged pleasure before possession, but your expertise excites me and, unable to restrain myself, I thrust my cock, aggressively moving back and forth, into Phoebe without further ado. This makes it difficult for you to keep your tongue in place, and, as the audience finally becomes aware of the degree of difficulty, they do in fact applaud for you. But does this please you? Instead you begin to cry, your tears lubricating the outer rim of my tu
lip, and, always solicitous of you, dear Bee, not wishing to distress you further, I extricate myself from Phoebe, ensconce you in her place, spread your legs over the arms of the chair, swallowing the hot honey (even hotter than your tears) that is streaming from your pussy. How delightfully receptive you are. When finally you can hold back no longer, beginning to scream, your orgasm begins, the audience, now completely on your side, erupts in applause, and, as they do, Nadine, Phoebe, and Maja vanish, leaving you, Queen Bee, triumphant to find the invisible chain with golden key dangling once more around your waist.

Are your fears at rest? I hope so. I am perhaps overly sensitive to your moods, for lately you've exhibited signs of a jealousy which surprise me. Put my mind at rest, please, invite Phoebe to join us at Akeru for an indefinite stay as I shall be
coming there next week. By complying you will prove how misguided I have been in misinterpreting your actions perhaps intended as provocative preludes to our revels? Phoebe deserves to be educated in the art of enjoyment, for I suspect that she, like my wife, Priscilla, is sadly lacking in the ability to accept pleasure, which accounts no doubt for her lack of expertise at the magic show. It sometimes crosses my mind to ask you to invite Priscilla to visit Akeru so that you could administer to her the same attentions I expect you to extend to Phoebe. How I would welcome any change this would make in her and how I would cherish you, dear Bee, even more than I do now for even a small transformation you might enable her to achieve so that she could in some measure experience the pleasures we enjoy. But I digress—Phoebe is another matter…she's an interesting girl. I suspect she moves on strange planes as you
do, Bee, and perhaps blessed with your chameleon skills of transformation? But needs encouragement, as you once did, to become confident, trust impulses, free to discover pleasures of erotic techniques she can't even imagine. But of course only invite her if you approve, my darling. There shall be no more Dominiques to disrupt our paradise.

Perhaps on second thought it's best we wait and see how she responds after this first visit before suggesting she reside longer; let's see how capable she is of applying herself with ease, grateful for the opportunity you are offering (you know how sulks unnerve me). But I sense in her eagerness to please. We shall see. Also her mons must
not
be waxed although you know I prefer yours to be—Phoebe's is another matter.

Until soon—my darling,